Fortification
by Scoffman
Summary: A collection of Sealand dabbles.
1. You Jerk!

I wrote this because I've always liked the relationship between Sealand and England, and I don't think that it gets enough attention. Actually, micronations and their host countries in general are pretty ignored, and I hope that'll change. Besides, I haven't written anything for the Hetalia fandom in, like, three years, so hitting the old fandom with less-shitty writing skills should be interesting. That said, this is probably going to be shit nonetheless, but I hope you can find some enjoyment in it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

This is set soon after Britain left the EU.

* * *

The weather was gray, gloomy, and dreary, with slate clouds hanging oppressively low overhead. One could hardly discern separate masses of mist, as the clouds all seemed to blend together in a blanket of smudged grayscale. It was cool enough to just barely require two layers on the mainland, but over the waters, where the waves white-capped as far as the eye could see, and where the wind gnawed away at one's person until they were numb, it was unquestionably necessary to dress warmer.

Sealand, clad in a long-sleeved sweater beneath an oversized black nylon windbreaker, equally large, fleece-lined nylon pants, and rain boots going up to his knees, stood at the edge of his platform and stared out over the ocean, observing the blurred forms on the horizon that was the shoreline. It was Sunday, and most of the people were in their homes, where it was warm and dry, preparing for the week ahead.

For him, however, it was business as usual.

Living in the ocean certainly had its perks - such as an unmatched view, the ability to fish from one's front porch, and the crisp scent of saltwater in the air - but it also brought a load of work that had to be carried out everyday. Most of it was maintenance, just to make sure that the structure wouldn't go crumbling into the sea anytime soon. But the chores took solid two hours out of his life, and occurred everyday, meaning that the upkeep was a constant that made every day more 'normal'. Even if the work was a pain in the ass at times, it provided a routine for him to fall back onto. A lot of land-dwellers didn't have that luxury.

Sealand knew of at least one who didn't.

As the boy watched a group of waterfowl fly overhead, he thought about what he should do. In his opinion, it was about time for that man to get a taste of his own medicine. But the better side of him was urging him to do something. Being young, he still had that natural desire to prevent seeing his pain reflected in others. Most of the nations, being a great amount of years his senior, appeared to have lost that instinct. That was likely why none of them were currently acting, despite having been subject to similar wrongdoings.

British heritage is no rarity. Of the 200 countries on the face of the planet, only 22 have never been invaded by the British. The empire has owned nearly half of the planet throughout history. Union Jack has flown over nearly every inch of land at some point or another, and in many places, it continues to, with fourteen overseas territories. Britain even as a sizeable chunk of Antarctica, for christ's sake.

It seemed that the one way Sealand could relate to the other countries of the world, the one identifying factor that allowed him to be similar to the recognized nations in any shape, form, or fashion, was the fact that Britain had once been there. It was only the shadow of a larger entity that allowed him to find any sort of kinship in other countries, and Sealand resented that. Yet, at the same time, it was that emptiness that drove him. If it weren't for his loneliness, he wouldn't have developed the work ethic he currently possessed. He never would have undertaken an epic quest just to become recognized as a way of sticking it to that bastard. If it weren't for the bad decisions of an inconsiderate man, he would be a worse person.

Since he was a better person now, though, Sealand decided he wouldn't make such god-awful choices himself.

Turning away from the railing, he walked back into the shelter of his home, heading to the kitchen. After grabbing a package and wrapping it in a brown paper shopping bag for safekeeping, he shoved the item into his coat and returned to the deck with a purposeful stride.

It was easy work getting into the speedboat and lowering it to the water level. Within five minutes he was braving the open waters alone, clenching his jaw so as to prevent his teeth from clashing together with each hop of the vessel over the cresting waves. The wind would catch the craft every now and again, sending it sideways, but Sealand was experienced in traversing difficult waters, and corrected it easily enough. At this speed, the water was as unforgiving as cement, and the salty spray felt like small, gelid needles hitting his face. Pulling the hood of his windbreaker up over his head, Sealand urged the craft onward, enduring the difficult conditions until he hit the shore.

After beaching the boat, the boy tied it to a post at a nearby pier, using a chain and padlock for some sense of security. Then he was off, walking up the rocky beach until he hit a road.

Transportation on land was always a strange thing for Sealand. Since he owned no car, he was forced to call a taxi, the driver of which was invariably surprised at the young boy's situation. It didn't take much observation to see that it was odd for a twelve year old boy to be alone and without transportation in a relatively out-of-the-way area, but money earned their service regardless of its irregularity.

The drive to London was just over two hours, and Sealand took no interest in any of it. He detested car rides simply because they made him feel so confined. He'd much rather be traveling there in a boat, with the open sea around him and the wind in his hair - even if the weather wasn't exactly desirable at the moment, he would feel infinitely more free. In the cab, he was reduced to incessant, awkward fidgeting while listening to the bad music choices of an apathetic driver.

Once arriving in London, Sealand paid the driver an obscene amount of money. Taxis weren't cheap, mind you, and the only way that he was able to afford the thing was because he was actually rather good managing his money. One had to be when they were so isolated. Besides, he didn't get out very much, so there wasn't a lot he could do in terms of wasting it. He just saved it until he could leave and do something useful with that cash.

Whether or not this would be useful remained to be seen.

Sealand stepped out of the car, looking at the seemingly normal townhouse before him. It blended in rather well with the other buildings surrounding it. If one didn't know precisely who resided here, it would be easily overlooked.

The sky was cloudy here as well, but more so than back at home. A storm was clearly coming in, as the horizon was swelling with a dark, purplish-gray streak that ushered in a cold wind. Sealand took a moment to observe it, ignoring the sound of tires against asphalt as the taxi drove away.

Looking back down to the dwelling in front of him, the micronation had to pause to gather his nerve. He had quite a lot of memories of this place, and nearly all of them were fond. He could recall running around the house as he pleased, exploring every nook and cranny of the place. It was all so pretty and grand and beautiful. He'd wanted to have a place like it when he got older.

Walking up to the tall, oaken door, Sealand stood on his toes to grasp the brass knocker. He rapped the door thrice, then returned to his normal stance and waited.  
One second passed, then two. Ten, fifteen, then twenty more, and Sealand began to think that no one was home. Just before he turned away the doorknob twisted, and the familiar face of his closest relative appeared in the now fully-exposed threshold. Emerald eyes gazed down upon him with an expression of genuine surprise, which morphed into vague vexation.

"Oh, it's you. What - have you come to mock me?" he asked, a bit defensively.

A frown crossed Sealand's face upon registering the nerve of this man! Why did he always have to assume the worst? Keeping his head held high, he made eye contact with Britain, a bit of irritance crossing his own face, but his words kept tentatively polite.

"No, Arthur. I've just come to talk."

This clearly caught England off guard. He had been expecting some sort of nonsense, given Peter's usual childish antics. He'd thought that perhaps the other had only come here to stir up even more drama over his departure, as if there wasn't enough already. He certainly hadn't been prepared for the serious tone the kid had taken up, which made him seem jaded and many years older than he actually was. He'd even used his human name, which was off-putting, since the larger country was accustomed to being called _Jerk Britain_ , or some variant thereof.

In all honesty, England was almost alarmed. Had something horrible occurred?

"Right. Well," he said, made somewhat awkward by the novelty of inviting the peculiar, mischief-making child into his home, "Come in, then."

Sealand watched as England stepped aside, ushering him in. He stepped over the threshold, his boots making small thuds against the hardwood floor of the foyer. He could remember sliding around on it in his socks when he was younger, much like Tom Cruise - albeit many years before Tom Cruise was even born. Instinctively recalling the rules of the house, Sealand removed his boots there, hearing England's gentle chastisements from long ago about scuffing the polished floor.

England lingered as he did so, somewhat impressed by the show of good manners, but not showing any such emotion. He led Sealand to the bookcase-lined living room shortly after, sitting him down at a needlepoint-stitched chair and taking a seat himself upon a small sofa, across a coffee table that was strewn with miscellaneous papers and important-looking folders.

At first glance, Sealand felt as if he had unwittingly stepped back in time. But upon a second, more observational gaze, he began to notice just how absurdly unaltered the place was.

Everything was precisely how he recalled it, down from the antique, maroon cabriole-legged sofa to the thoughtfully-placed tapestry area rug, which displayed the scene of a countryside lake in muted colors. The walls were still a dark brown color, and the left side of the living room still supported a massive framed map depicting the British isles. Sealand had gazed at that map many times, learning the land that he'd come from. It was astonishing to see that the place had been nearly completely unaltered by the passing of seventy years. Even the papers strewn about the room were familiar, as they accumulated in places he would have expected them to.

Back during the war, England had been exceedingly busy. Even when he came home during 'rest' periods, he stayed up late into the night planning and preparing to take on the Axis. The house had constantly been filled with loose leaf paper, the outdated reports being tossed into a bin in the far corner - which now was in the same place, and overflowing, just as it had then. Things that could prove to be of use soon were stacked in a pile on the nearest bookshelf, and whatever he was working on would likely be cast about the coffee table, where he could contemplate them while sipping his afternoon tea. Both of those groups were present yet, but instead of relating to war plans and military reports, they were discussing his complex economy and international affairs.

"So, what have you come to me to discuss?" England asked, watching over the boy with what appeared to be an expression of both suspicion and concern.  
"Well.." Sealand began, feeling a bit awkward, "You made a big decision. I didn't want you to be completely alone because of it."

The words took a few moments for England to comprehend. Not only was such sympathies uncommon in general, but he never would have expected it from anyone, much less the vivacious little micronation that seemed to hate his guts. But once he came to reassure himself that he wasn't insane, and that Sealand had actually said such a thing, England began to realize that this would be a much more profound meeting than he had initially thought it to be.

"And, uh, I got you something." The smaller blonde said quickly afterward, pulling a brown paper package from his slicker. He handed it to England, who took it in a state of near shock.

"Peter, are you trying to-"

"Just open it, you git."

Hastened somewhat by those words, England redirected his attention to the gift, and slowly began to pull away the brown paper bag. After unraveling it, he saw that it was a bag of Da Hong Pao tea, which would probably last him about a month.

While it was true that Sealand often proclaimed his extreme dislike of England, there was no doubt that the boy was British. He'd inherited far too much from the larger island to be able to deny his bloodline. The kinship showed not only in his appearance, but in his attitude, manner of speaking, and in his extreme fondness of tea. When it came to a taste for the beverage, the two were nearly identical, the younger having ascertained quite a bit of knowledge about the subject while in England's care. The boy had been raised on Earl Grey, but he'd always enjoyed trying other types outside of black tea, such as the green and red teas of Asia and Africa. With such great literacy, - and the time to go through the trouble of obtaining rare brands - he had been able to get England the gift that he, and only he, could appreciate to a great extent.

"Peter, this is very kind of you..." England said, looking back up to the other with the same expression of astonishment, "Thank you - but why have you done this?"  
"I - well..." Sealand shifted a bit, seeming oddly flustered by the question. In all honesty, he'd just felt bad for England, but he couldn't just outright say that without looking weak. Besides, there was another way of looking at it that had assisted him in making the bold decision to go through with this, and stating that alone would be justification enough. "You might be an insufferable disgrace to the Kirkland name, but I'm not."

"I'm- pardon me?" England responded, raising a brow as he scoffed, clearly ruffled at the statement. In a manner that was half amused and half contemptuous, he responded, "Why, I defined the Kirkland name! If it weren't for me, you wouldn't bear it. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even be here to say such ridiculous things."  
In that moment, Sealand transitioned from day to night. In an explosion of fury, he exclaimed, "Do you expect me to care? Why should I, when you treated me as if I weren't even here in the first place?!"

The instantaneous mood swing caught England off guard, and he was left absolutely speechless as he watched Sealand stand. The effect that would have been had with most other nations was lost by the boy's lack of height - at his full extension, he was only as tall as England when the latter was sitting. However, his change of expression was still quite profound; His entire body was taut with rage, and was visibly quivering, whatever inklings of goodwill that had originally driven him to visit England having vanished. Already his eyes were misty, making the bright cerulean of his irises appear like a tumultuous ocean.

"Was that your idea of family? Casting me aside and pretending like I didn't exist after the war was over? What, you couldn't have found some other use for me?!" Sealand continued, his hands clenching into fists as his raised voice conveyed years of pain and loneliness that had built up in his chest, not unlike oil beneath the sea floor. He hadn't expected to become so impassioned upon deciding to visit Britain, but he was far too caught up in a confusing whirlwind of emotions to notice that it was getting out of hand.

"You never cared so little about any of your other siblings! When America got tired of your shit and claimed independence, you cared enough to declare war! I see now why he left - anyone in their right mind would be _ashamed_ to share your blood!" Sealand continued his verbal slaughter unrelentingly, and all England could do was take it, stunned by every moment of it.

"Furthermore, why did you ever make me, if I meant almost nothing to you?!" Sealand took in a shaky breath, his lungs beginning to burn. "Agh, you're a low, worthless bast-"

A drop of saltwater broke free of his left eye, running down his cheek. The sensation stopped him, as it had caught him by surprise. Raising a hand, Sealand wiped it away, coming to realize just how bothered he'd become. In his outrage, the boy hadn't even realized that he'd been driven to tears, though he was now acutely aware of it thanks to the stinging of his eyes and the cool sensation of the trail the water had left. Looking down to his hand, he stared at the drop as it was soaked up by his skin, in near disbelief of how weak he'd turned in front of a large country.

He looked back up to England with a gaze of ice, and seethed the dreaded words that made him wince.

 _"I hate you."_

 __The boy turned and began to leave the home, widening the distance between them at a brisk pace.

England, released from his immobilizing stupor, leapt up from his sofa, the tea dropping from his hands. In an instant he had caught up to the boy, a hand reaching out to grab his wrist.

"Peter, wait-!"

"Don't touch me!" Sealand responded, pivoting on his heel and slapping England's hand away, "Don't you _ever_ touch me, or so help me, I will-"

Caught up in emotion himself, England hugged the micronation, kneeling as he did so.

Sealand protested, hitting and scratching and kicking and flailing in an attempt to break free, but it was ineffective, as England was infinitely stronger than he. After thirty long seconds of fruitless struggle, he was coerced to stop, though he continued to voice his displeasure.

"Let me go, you wanker!"

"No." England responded decisively, tightening his grip around the boy and picking him up. He turned and walked back to the living room, sitting down and placing the kid on his lap. Once there, he continued to embrace him, running a hand through his blond hair, which he noticed was bare, as it was one of the rare times that Sealand was unable to wear his usual sailor outfit.

England had been through quite a lot over the years, and he'd made many decisions that he'd come to regret. When one existed for so long, it was inevitable - naturally, every country had a growing list of things they wished they could change. Seeing just how much he'd hurt a child was one of the most profound things that had ever happened to him, and in that moment, he was overcome with guilt.

The second world war was quite possibly the most traumatic thing that England had ever gone through, as it was for many other nations who were involved in it. Despite being on the winning side, he'd been badly beaten, and his main concern was rebuilding and trying to come back from the edge of hell. With so much work to focus on, he'd more or less forgotten about Sealand, who had served him faithfully throughout the course of the war, regardless of the fact that being born into a world set on destroying itself was a terrifying thing for a young lad.

Even after recovering, England had made some conscious decision to leave him be. At the time, he'd been sure that Sealand would be fine. He was a Brit, and if there was one thing that England had learned from years of colonization, it was that the Brits could take care of themselves, especially if they were separated from the mainland by the sea.

Then, Sealand claimed independence.

Although it was absurd, England only took it as further reassurance that Sealand was fine on his own. Brits were perfectly capable of caring for themselves, especially when separated from the mainland by sea _and_ claiming independence.

Now, it was painfully clear how much of a fool he'd been. The claim of independence wasn't a show of self-sufficiency. It was a way of asking for attention. Sealand had thought that he'd be able to get England to notice and appreciate him again if England had to struggle to retain his loyalty. But it had only hurt him in the long run when England failed to show any sign of caring.

He could only imagine how devastating that must have been. Did he really make Sealand feel so small, insignificant, and worthless, to the point that he'd thought England hadn't even noticed his absence?

Damn it. He didn't know if he could forgive himself for that.

As he sat there, holding the boy in his arms and stroking his hair, it began to rain. The soothing sound of water crashing against the roof pulled England out of his thoughts, and he realized that at some point, Sealand had stopped resisting the gesture. He now rested with his head against England's collar bone as he compliantly leaned into his chest, arms wrapped around the larger nation's torso as he returned the hug.

England sighed, looking down to the top of Sealand's head in remorse.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I shouldn't have abandoned you. That was irresponsible, and you were kind in visiting me in spite of that-" he stopped upon noticing that Sealand's eyes were closed, and he was breathing with the regularity that only sleep could bring. Rationalizing that the poor child was tuckered out from the outburst and the traveling it took to get there, England patted his head and took in another deep breath. "Well, that's perfectly fine." he murmured, petting Sealand's soft hair once again and consenting to hold him indefinitely, dozing off himself as he listened to the rain outside.

A smile spread over Sealand's lips as he too began to fall asleep.


	2. Creation

This isn't in chronological order. I'm just jumping around from time period to time period. Perhaps later I'll go back and put them in sequence.

* * *

It was the new year, but the war was still uncertain. Every moment of existence was spent in excruciating anticipation, as the situation could change at any instant, leaving Britain scrambling to get himself out of a disadvantaged and precarious spot, or sprinting to widen his lead. At the moment, the Allies seemed to be gaining an edge, if for nothing else than the promising offensive movements of the Soviet Union. While Germany had taken a sizeable amount of land in his eastward expansion, it appeared he'd only made another enemy he couldn't afford.

Technically, it was still the holiday season. In times of peace, England would be celebrating it with his own honored, familiar traditions, but he could not afford to do any such thing under the difficult circumstances. Regardless of how much he desired to take time off, the tasks at hand were unrelenting in their urgency. If he did not continue to throw forth his best effort, he would be conquered by the unyielding brutality of his adversaries. It was all he could do to return home for a day or so at most, but only for the purpose of gathering his wits about him once more. He could draw up more plans, and try to get a leg up.

Exhausted from his travels and incessant strife, and stretched thin by the unfathomable demands of the war, England unlocked the door to his small house for the first time in months with the mixed emotions of relief and sorrow, knowing that even though it was a relatively short time since he'd been here last, he was a still a much more tried and jaded person than when he'd left.

Turning on the lights and entering the home, England closed and locked the door behind him with a deep breath of tentative solace. The air within the foyer was still, and the entire house was silent. It was a delight to the ears after having been assaulted by the unsavory and taxing sounds of explosions and death.

England laid his heavy suitcase on the hardwood floor and removed his boots before walking to the kitchen. He retrieved a steel kettle from the cupboard and filled it with water, placing it on the stove before walking to the living room.

Old reports covered the coffee table, showing where he had been four months previously. He didn't stop to look over them, because doing so would only make him more surfeited with the recognition of how much he'd done in that time. Gathering the papers in a jumbled pile, he moved them to the waste bin, casting them away without allowing himself any second thoughts. He fetched the newest assessments as the whistle from the kitchen alerted him to the water having boiled, and after strewing the pages across the table, he strolled back to the stove and prepared himself a cup of Earl Grey.

Carrying the cup and saucer back to the parlor, he sat down on the antique sofa and closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax for a few moments. In his opinion, there was hardly anything more soothing than a cup of tea, which he now began to sip with a deep breath to assist in pulling himself together.

When he opened his eyes next, he was met by two cerulean orbs gazing back at him. "Hello!"

England's deep breath turned into a sharp intake of air and tea, the latter making it into his airways and threatening to enter his lungs and nose. He began to cough violently, attempting to expel the liquid from his now burning respiratory system. He doubled over, dropping the tea and holding a hand to his chest as he continued to struggle, the porcelain shattering upon hitting the hardwood floor. For a moment it felt as if he would asphyxiate, as the burning grew in intensity until he could hardly bear it, and he began to lose focus in his vision. But then he was able to draw in a deep, gasping breath, his lungs functioning normally once more. Desperately, he panted to regain his composure. Oxygen scarcely felt so good.

Looking back up, England saw that the child appeared concerned, and now leaned over the table a bit to observe him.

"Are you alr-"

"Who the bloody hell are you?!"

The boy withdrew a bit, startled. "O-Oh, well..." he paused, thinking about that for a few moments. It was a very good question, and he didn't quite know the answer. He was clay, waiting to be molded into some defined entity. At the moment, he was still waiting to be assigned a purpose, but deep within him, he was able to produce his title.

"Fort Roughs..." His brows furrowed in confusion, blue eyes looking up to England in bemusement. "I think...?"

"Fort Roughs?" England mumbled, "Why, that's a silly-" He stopped then, recalling a military installment being made in Essex. Construction was nearly completed, and it would soon be ready to send to sea. However, it wasn't a well-known structure; People around the country were largely focused on more pressing matters, such as trying to avoid being blown to pieces. Children weren't in the habit of pretending to be random naval establishments, and there was no logical explanation as to how the boy entered his locked, secured home.

"No," England contended, "That's not possible. Forts don't just _come to life!"_

Once gain, the boy had become flustered by England's incredulity. Clasping his hands together, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, averting his eyes from the nation to avoid his scrutinizing gaze, which seemed to be demanding an answer that the lad didn't possess. He imposed a question, his voice faint and nearly inaudible.

England blinked, staring at him in puzzlement. "Pardon?"

Looking up, the boy repeated, "What is a _fort?_ "

"He's so short!" The lofty male stated, looking down at Fort Roughs over rectangular, wire glasses.

Instinctively, Fort Roughs stood tall - at least, as tall as he could be when he crested the four foot mark by only a few inches. He didn't know who the man in front of him was, but he sensed an importance about him that nearly rivaled that of England. Gazing up to him, Fort Roughs offered a hand and a curious, friendly smile. "Hello!" he chirped, excited to have the other's attention for the time being.

The man reached down, accepting the hand shake with digits impressively larger than Fort Roughs'. His grip was acutely firm, nearly to the point of causing discomfort - but somehow Fort Roughs was able to tell that he was trying to be gentle.

"Hey there!" he responded in a bright, optimistic voice, "You look like a scrappy little thing. What's your name?"

The compliment elicited a wide grin from the naval base. Beaming, he rose to his toes, his body extending to better look the taller man in the eyes. "I'm Fort Roughs!"

The man produced a hearty chuckle, greatly pleased with that answer. "Roughs, huh? You ought to be pretty strong, th- wait." He paused, releasing the boy's hand and turning to look at England. "Did I hear that right?"

England, who was pacing in a small, tight line nearby glanced up to the man and nodded. "He's a fort, yes."

"A _fort."_ The man repeated, brows furrowing in confusion. "And... You're not screwing with me, are ya?"

"What do you take me for? Do I look like I'm interested in pulling some childish ruse?"

Fort Roughs had only been alive for half a day, but he was able to tell that England most certainly did _not_ look interested.

"Hm..." The dirty blond-haired male turned to look at Fort Roughs, staring him up and down for a few minutes. "...Yeah, I guess I can see it," he stated, producing a befuddled sigh, "But I don't know. I just didn't think something like this was ever possible - I mean, nothing like this has ever happened before."

"Don't you think I know that? America - you twat." England sighed in exasperation, stopping and turning on his heel. He stared at America - so that was the man's name - with an exhausted and wholly unamused expression. "What the bloody hell should I do with him?" he said, not even casting a glance toward the subject of the conversation.

Fort Roughs crossed his arms, glaring up at England with a brand new emotion: vexation. He didn't exactly comprehend his distaste at the time, but he knew that he certainly did not like being ignored.

"Don't ask me," America responded with a shrug, "he's your creation. Just take care of him, and make sure he grows up to be big and strong!" At the latter half of the statement he looked down to Fort Roughs, casting a confident smirk in his direction - it was as if he were silently alluding to some secret that only the two of them knew, and for an instant, Fort Roughs felt as if he had a close friend. "You never know! Maybe someday he'll grow up to be a superpower."

Fort Roughs, captivated by the fixating stare of the large nation in front of him, did not perceive England tense at these words. Neither did he notice when his fatherland huffed, muttered a few curses, and strolled away - not until it was too late, and the sudden absence left him feeling confused, anxious, concerned, and wondering why America's gaze turned cold as he stared at the trail of the British man.


	3. Cutty Sark

International politics was an exhausting matter to be involved in. Some days it seemed bearable, albeit tasteless, with every self-centered diplomat attempting to do nothing but gain whatever he fancied, not for his country, but for himself. Other times it was overbearing, and the stress felt like the weight of of a thousand elephants balancing upon Arthur's shoulders. He would feel overheated, bitter, and especially irritable all day, wishing for nothing more than the ability to forget about the problems of the world and simply go home.

Today, however, was especially hellish. It seemed as if the entire globe had inexplicably gone to shit in a matter of hours. Ivan had increased the pressure on Assad, Alfred's election resulted in riots and general alarm throughout the world, OPEC was still attempting to compete with American oil companies, ISIS was making a series of small advances, and global warming wasn't close to being solved - not that many of the other countries cared about that. Not to mention, Arthur still had to work out the technicalities of his new uninvolvement in the European Union, which the world had reeled from for a total of two weeks before forgetting about.

When the man stepped out of the taxicab in front of his townhouse, he was completely spent. He shuffled through the threshold of the building with a deep sigh, shutting the outside world out behind his front door. For a moment he leaned back against it, taking deep breaths to coerce himself to relax once again. It was so damn difficult with the workload he faced, but he knew that stress on this level would affect his health for the worse, and it was critical to lessen its influence as well as he could.

"Welcome home! How was your day?"

Looking up, Arthur found himself staring into the cerulean eyes of the giddy young lad who had been staying with him for a week or so. It wasn't too difficult to look after the boy since he was remarkably self-sufficient, - one had to be when residing in the middle of the ocean - and only seemed to rely on the older man for company. If that was what the child desired, so be it. Arthur had to agree that the solitude he faced out on the open ocean wasn't exactly beneficial to the boy's mentality, and he had promised to take some responsibility for Peter upon their reconciliation a matter of days ago. Aside from that, Arthur felt a moral obligation to start making up for all that lost time, and to right some of the pain he'd unwittingly inflicted upon him by his sheer absence over the years. Now that he realized he cared for Peter, it was time to start properly showing it.

Everyday when Arthur returned home from work, the micronation was there to greet him. He always appeared so jolly when doing so; It was akin to an excitable puppy seeing its master for the first time in a few days.

Unfortunately, Arthur was so weary that he could only produce the ghost of a smile in return. "Oh, hello Peter… It was fine." he answered in an attempt to keep a pleasant tone, but he instead sounded breathless, insincere, and thoroughly drained.

Peter obviously picked up on it, and he watched in alarm and concern as the Brit walked past him, going toward the kitchen. He had known that being a nation involved in world politics was an arduous job, but he had never known just how taxing the vocation was. He'd seen Arthur's return home for only a short period of time, but each time he'd previously walked through the door he was in a condition tremendously better than what he found himself in now. Never had Peter seen Britain so deprived of vitality - not that he was one known for vivaciousness, but even he had a characteristic bitter vigor that made his good health easy to spot. No trace of that rough, distant, curt exterior was visible at the moment, which made the nation appear spectacularly weak.

It was frightening to the boy, whose mind flew to the worse possible scenarios. Had Arthur fallen ill? Had he received some terribly bad news? Oh dear, there was a nuclear war on the way, wasn't there? Or perhaps Elizabeth II had kicked the bucket? The possibilities were horrible and endless.  
Despite his concerns being quite numerous and frightening, Peter did not immediately voice them. He instead followed Arthur silently, observing his actions and trying to infer what he could from his demeanor. Under circumstances any closer to normalcy, he would have peppered him with questions left and right, but at the moment he was self-conscious and cautious, not wanting to negatively affect the obviously tired nation.

Arthur stood at the bar in the southern part of the kitchen, which held the stove. He had prepared a kettle of water and was placing it over the fire, opening the cabinet as he did so. After producing a box of British Breakfast tea which he placed on the countertop, he removed his black gloves and turned around, leaning against the bar to look out the window. His eyes were immediately drawn to Peter, and a faint look of surprise crossed his face. He hadn't expected for the boy to follow him, nor had he known he was there, which was a shock considering the fact that Peter hardly ever stopped talking. Upon further observation, Arthur also noticed that he appeared worried, which made him concerned in return.

"Is, ah, is everything alright…?" he questioned, made embarrassed by how intently the boy was staring at him.

"I should be asking you that." Peter responded, his brows furrowed in fret. "You're the one who looks like a malnourished, beaten dog."

Arthur snorted, a bit of his typical spirit returning as he smiled and responded, "My my, how flattering. I see you've inherited my gift with words. A right and proper gentleman, aren't you?"

Peter huffed, crossing his arms in an attempt to accentuate his seriousness. "But it's _true!_ You look fit to die! What did they _do_ to you?!"

Arthur paused, thinking over that question. He knew precisely what those bastards did; They pushed, they shoved, they took, they stole, they sneered, they jabbed, and they lied through their teeth. Some were obviously worse than others, but by and by, Arthur was sick of it all. Sometimes the weight of everything came down upon him, leaving him hopelessly despondent and apathetic for a few days at a time. He'd usually come around through some bout of anger, and end up snapping at some poor soul, but at least the fury would restore the life to him.

He couldn't let Peter know that. The kid looked up to him right now, and Arthur didn't want to shatter whatever image the child currently painted of him.

"Oh, nothing too difficult." he answered, trying to appear more like _Great_ Britain and less like a whipped slave, "It was just a long day. Everyone kept bickering as usual, and nothing got done. I worked through lunch today, so I don't have as much energy a-"

"Then let me cook for you!" Peter interjected, determination dripping from his voice as he stared up at the nation, "I'll make an early dinner, and it will taste good enough to make up for lunch! You'll love it, I promise!"

Arthur was very skeptical of how well this would turn out, and his first instinct was to reject that notion. He didn't feel comfortable allowing the kid to prepare his food, and something told him that toasting poptarts would be more suitable to his level. But stronger than his better judgement was his curiosity. He hadn't exactly been close with Peter since his creation, and a lot has happened in 74 years. Peter was admittedly remarkably self-reliant and resourceful for someone his age, having survived 13 kilometers of the coast of Essex for quite some time. There was also a chance that he'd picked up something from the military chefs that inhabited him through his early years, and it was another possibility that he'd learned the craft in learning to take care of himself. Perhaps he'd be good at this.

Biting back his instincts and conceding to the boy's wishes, Arthur nodded with a small sigh. "Well, if you're so set upon it, I don't see why you don't deserve a chance."

Peter's face lit up, and his eyes gained a delighted sparkle. With an exuberant grin, he proclaimed, "You won't regret it!"

A low whistle began to emanate from the kettle, and Arthur picked it up from the stove, pouring himself a cup of tea as he too began to smile. "I'm sure I won't." he stated, placing his cup on a small saucer and looking back to Peter. "Would you like any help?"

Not surprisingly, the boy was averse to that idea.

"Heavens, no!" he proclaimed, huffing as if insulted. Peter glared up at Britain, pointing toward the living room, "You will go to the lounge, settle on your favorite chair, and relax with your cup of tea while I prepare dinner!"

Arthur stared down at Peter, greatly amused by his command. It was adorable to see such a tiny thing try to be authoritative, and the cute, pretentious little show convinced him to entertain his demand. Shrugging, he responded, "Very well then," and, turning in an unaffected manner, he strolled out of the kitchen. Moments later, he was seated on the antique needlepoint chair in his living room, gazing out the window and sipping his tea as the sun began to lower.

It was nice to relax for once, and simply enjoy what he had. Thinking about it now, Arthur was always a discontented lad in his youth. He'd been so set on exploring and competing with that frog across the channel that he'd hardly ever stopped to consider that which he already possessed. It was an endless race to colonize the Americas, and later, gaining resources from Africa. Some of that imperialistic spirit was born of Britain's natural lack of precious things; He was only a little island, after all, and in order to sustain himself, his people, and become the empire he so desired to be, he'd had to take part in conquest. Mind you, that was no easy task. Most of the places he explored were so alien and seemingly hostile that he was forced to invest his heart and soul into his excursions. Centuries of effort had placed him atop the world at one point, and that period of uncompromised dominance was what made his slip from power so devastating.

But look at Peter! While Arthur was still inwardly bitter over how much he'd lost, this boy was doing nothing but looking forward! Peter had gone his entire life being something far smaller than even the British Isles, and despite so many years of isolation and overall regression, he was still convinced that he was perfectly fine as he was. It was bewildering to Arthur, who had so much more than Peter, but was never quite content. It seemed that there was one thing the micronation possessed that continued to elude Arthur's grasp despite hundreds of years of toil.

Self-acceptance.

Perhaps, with time, the trait would rub off onto Arthur. If he continued to learn from the boy's resilience, optimism, and gratitude, he might finally be able to reach that better place, and fill the vacancy he'd been attempting to patch up since his late teenage years.

For what felt like a single, fixed period in time, Arthur sat there, perched upon his furniture in the room that hadn't changed for nearly a century, pondering for once over how much he had instead of how much he didn't, and silently giving thanks for it all, especially for his luck in having a delightful younger brother who, despite all of his mistreatment, returned to Arthur in a time of need. It was a brilliant moment, however simple it was. The sun had set at this point, throwing its last vivid rays across the sky before perishing, and when coupled with the sounds of the resolute tween working hard in the adjacent room just to make him happy, it made for a surreal and sublime scene.

Unfortunately, it was shattered by the screeching of the smoke alarm. Arthur redirected his attention to the kitchen, swiftly setting down his tea and springing to his feet. Within no time he was standing in the doorway of the room, staring in at a panicking Sealandic child who was gaping at the open oven in horror. When he turned to look at the older man, Arthur saw that the poor kid was nearly in tears.

"A-Arthur, wh-what do I do?!" he questioned, clutching a dish rag like a drowning man to a ring buoy.

The first course of action was clear, and Arthur undertook it without hesitation. Brandishing a mitt, he reached into the oven and pulled out the smoking pan, setting it on the counter before closing the appliance and turning it off. After removing the glove, he redirected his attention to the alarm, which was still producing an unbearable din. He reached up, extending himself to his full height by standing on his toes, and disabled the obnoxious device. After the horrid sound ceased, Arthur took a deep breath, and walked to the window over the kitchen sink, opening it to allow the room to air out.

With the adrenaline fading away, Arthur turned to Peter, only to find him staring at the dish in despair. He approached, hearing the boy murmur, "It's ruined…"

Looking down into the pan, Arthur saw the charred remains of what was meant to be a shepherd's pie, which had now cooled off quite a bit from its previous fiery state. Curious, Arthur produced a fork from a drawer, and began to poke the substance. It took quite a few tries just to pierce the outer shell, which gave way with a resounding _crunch._ However, the scent of burnt meat and potatoes made Arthur immediately regret the decision, and he promptly set the fork down.

"Yes, it appears you've toasted it quite thoroughly.."

Peter looked up to him, his eyes still watery. He acted as if he'd committed some unspeakable transgression, and began to apologize with a quavering voice, "I-I'm sorry, Arthur! I was supposed to help you relax and handle dinner, b-but it's a complete _disaster!"_

The outburst surprised Arthur, who hadn't realized what this meant to Peter. He'd clearly cared very much about the meal, and he'd had nothing but the purest intentions. Oi, all of this just to make the man relax!

A mirthful giggle arose in Arthur's throat, growing until it was a warm, genuine chuckle. Peter continued to gaze up at him, wide-eyed and confused by the gesture. Resting a hand on the micronation's shoulder, Arthur reassured him with a proud smile. "This isn't a bad thing at all!" He asserted, sounding incredibly pleased with the situation, "You've inherited my cooking skills." His voice dripped with a heartwarming tone, beaming at the fact that he was no longer isolated in his culinary ineptitude. His horrid cooking was a proud tradition that he was elated to pass down to the last relative that had both the time for and interest in him.

"R-Really..?" Peter responded, sniffing as he regained a bit of his composure. His expression had shifted from one of sorrow to one of growing happiness, and his eyes were beginning to regain their usual twinkle.

"Yes, _really."_ Arthur reaffirmed, patting his head with the same merry demeanor, "This is cause for celebration. How about we go out for fish and chips?"

Peter's face lit up at the suggestion, and he displayed his own radiant grin. "Yes, please!"

"Excellent," Arthur responded, satisfied with the plan, "Remember your overcoat, it's cold outside, and I don't want you getting sick."

"Yes sir!" Peter responded with zeal, straightening his back and pressing his heels together. He flinched, catching himself with his arm half-raised, staring up at Britain with a shocked expression. He clearly hadn't expected to slip into his old military compulsions, which were still a fundamental part of his being beneath the ocean of his personality. It was the stitching that held him together, seeing as how, quite unlike every other nation in the world, he was built to serve. Something about being near Arthur and experiencing pleasant interactions for the first time in decades had reawakened that old, loyal side that made him willing to be blown to bits for the sake of the mainland, and after hearing the first command he was happy to obey since the '40s, his instincts simply overrode his mind, much in the same way a retired sportsman starts when a ball is thrown his way.

The blunder made Peter feel exposed, as something he'd worked so long to drown inexplicably surfaced at the mere doting reminder Arthur had cast his way. It made him feel fragile and delicate, like a weakling whose basic mindset relied upon a nation larger than him. Peter detested showing any sign of reliance upon what Britain used to be to him, and quickly broke attention, averting his gaze downward.

"I, mean, uh- alright!" he corrected himself, swiftly scurrying out of the room to avoid the larger nation's gaze.

Arthur hadn't known what to think of the event, though he felt indescribably awkward. Despite watching over him and feeling partially responsible for his well-being, he hadn't viewed him as the sea fort he was. It was such an easy detail to forget, as being with him was similar to raising a colony, albeit without the hassle of constantly defending him from rival nations or regulating his trade. The role Britain played for the boy was, at the moment, a provider of social interaction, protection, security, and perhaps even a type of role model. It was not his place to control anything beyond that, and for that reason, Arthur did not feel the same sense of ownership that he did upon building him. It struck him then just how much things had changed since then, seeing as how it was now _uncomfortable_ for Peter to refer to him as 'sir'.

Being a nation, Arthur was accustomed to the feeling of time flying by, but rarely did the extent of its influence strike him as hard as it did then. Perhaps it was the fact that neither Peter nor he physically looked any different than they had seventy-something years ago that hid how much had changed; It was surreal to know the true age of the boy who appeared no older than twelve or thirteen. The world was entirely different now, and although it was infuriating and far from perfect, Arthur was much more comfortable with modern politics than the war Peter was born into. Everything was better nowadays, which was obvious, seeing as how there was very little room for things to get worse during the second world war. It had nearly brought Arthur to his knees, and gave him wounds that would continue to scar him for the remainder of his life. But aside from his own health and prosperity, his relationship with Peter had improved drastically, and that momentary glimpse into the past unsettled him with thoughts of how they were before: impersonal, distant, and detached.

"All ready!" Peter chimed as he jogged back from the corridor in boots and a buttoned overcoat. He sounded cheerful, but there was nervous quality to his voice that hinted at his own discombobulation, as he still trying to play off his previous actions.

Arthur, being ready to move forward and forget it, simply nodded and walked to the door. He slipped on his shoes and grabbed his coat from a hook before going outside, Peter close behind him.

For a short while the pair walked in silence, each bundled up against the cold. Arthur allowed his mind to wander for a bit, his eyes momentarily settling upon Peter's coat. It was made of wool and fashioned in the typical style of the British navy, with midnight blue fabric and large gold buttons on its double breast. There was, of course, the white-accented sailor collar, which Peter seemed to have on all of his clothes, although with varying inverted colors.

It was odd to recall that Peter was a sailor, given his kindness. Arthur was used to seeing hardened, rough seamen with coarse exteriors, which the micronation wasn't. The knowledge that Peter had once been in Arthur's military was frankly disturbing, as it had chanced obscene corruption. Of course, the boy was still affected by it, but not near as much as he would have been if he were exposed to the conflict later in life, or if he weren't built for it. The first instance in which Peter's natural stubbornness was useful appeared to be when it prevented him from becoming a jaded and apathetic machine, and even then, Arthur was only just appreciating it seventy years after the fact.

Truth be told, Arthur didn't want for Peter to grow cold, as most sailors did. The moment Peter's optimism failed, so would his spirit, and his childhood. Arthur didn't know what he'd do if the boy grew up. Surely Peter would lose interest in him and take his turn in abandoning Britain, and naturally, Arthur would be heartbroken. But what to do afterward? Attempt to nurse himself back to emotional well-being with imperialism? He wouldn't - he couldn't. Not in today's world.

Arthur dispelled those thoughts upon arriving at a small food stand. He came to a halt in front of it, greeting the worker with a simple, "Good evening," before ordering, "Fish and chips, please, with an iced tea - and.." he paused, looking down to Peter, who quickly received the message.  
"Precisely the same!" he chimed, grinning at the aproned man behind the stand, "Oh, except with a melon soda, please!"

The worker offered a polite smile and nodded, preparing the meals before ringing them up. Arthur paid and handed Peter his food and drink, which elicited a bright smile. "Thank you!" Peter said, his breath turning visible in the night cold and rising above his head.

The boy's bubbly spirit was infectious, and the sight of his joy produced a warm sensation in Arthur's chest that he hadn't felt in an ungodly amount of time. He felt the urge to reach out and hug him, but that wasn't possible given that their hands were occupied, and it wasn't called for. Instead, Arthur settled for reassuring him that it was no trouble, and beginning to walk.

"Oh, where are we going?" Peter inquired, having not expected to travel anywhere to eat. He glanced back at the picnic table nearby, which was unoccupied.

"Somewhere you may like." Arthur responded vaguely, strolling along the sidewalk with the appearance of aimlessness. He kept his box of food firm in one hand, and nonchalantly sipped tea out of the cup held in the other. His oxford shoes generated quiet, precise thuds against the cement, which were echoed by the softer, irregular scrapings of Peter's footfall as he adjusted his pace to keep up.

The two walked in silence for awhile, Peter not inquiring about their destination, and Arthur showing no intention to tell him. The streets were ominous during the night - at least, they were to Peter, who wasn't accustomed to being on land past daylight. He would have been frightened, but the presence of his older brother and caretaker was endlessly reassuring, and provided him with a security and comfort that he'd never had before. Not even his military days brought him this much confidence, and that was with an abundance of sailors at his back to defend him and his country. No, Arthur alone carried an effect much more profound than his entire military could. Of course, he was a nation, and he could pack quite the punch when provoked, but his power did not matter much to Peter. The boy enjoyed Arthur simply because he was kind, mature, and was _finally_ paying attention to him, and the knowledge that someone with his character was walking aside him made Peter feel as if he could successfully wage war against the entire world, if need be.

After a solid ten minutes of walking, Arthur slowed down and changed directions. He stepped off the sidewalk, heading into the shadows, which soon engulfed him. Peter froze for a moment, realizing that he had no idea where the man was going. Standing beneath a streetlamp, he was blind to what laid beyond the small circle of light which protected him. However, he felt helplessly exposed without Arthur, and he quickly decided that he'd rather follow him into uncertainty than remain alone in what may or may not have been safety.

Peter moved his legs again, taking up a hurried pace in order to catch up. He paid no heed to the fact that he was doing so blindly, and after about ten seconds of movement, his feet caught on rocky terrain. Just as he lurched forward, a hand reached out and grabbed his sailor collar, pulling him back and rightly on his feet.

"Oi, be careful!" Arthur scolded, his voice nearly irritated, "I can't have you falling and breaking your bones out here."

Peter turned toward the sound of the voice, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the low light. He was able to make out Arthur's figure against the streetlight, which was now some distance away. Beside him was a park bench, which faced further into the darkness.

"Sorry," Peter apologized, smiling nervously, "But, ah, thank you for catching me!"

"Of course." Arthur said, taking a seat and gesturing to the space next to him, "Now, come here."

Peter did as he was told, gingerly making his way over to the other side of the bench and settling down beside him. He looked up to Arthur, squinting to make out details in his face, although he was met with varying levels of success.  
"Uh, if you don't mind me asking," the boy asked, "where are we?"

"Listen." Arthur answered, opening his box of food and beginning to absently chew on his chips. Peter followed suit, and returned his gaze forward, staring into the inky blackness. There were lights in the distance, which appeared to belong to buildings whose purposes Peter could not discern. After a few moments of confusion, Peter found that he was able to make out a familiar, glorious sound.  
"Arthur, are we by the water?" Peter asked, glee in his voice.

"Yes indeed." Arthur responded, "It's almost been a week, so I figured you'd be tired of seeing nothing but land."

As odd as it sounded, Arthur was absolutely correct. Peter _had_ been growing antsy during the time Arthur was gone to work, and he was beginning to have trouble sleeping at night without the familiar sounds of the ocean shifting outside his walls. Although he could not clearly see it at the moment on account of a new moon and clouded skies, the knowledge that a waterway was so closeby was greatly consoling to the micronation.

Although he did not speak of it, Arthur was aware that the only way he was able to comprehend and predict Peter's yearning for the sea was because he had experienced it for some time himself. He knew firsthand just how alluring the ocean could be, and when one had established a sort of residence within it, returning to land resulted in tortuous withdrawal.

Arthur would hate to experience that for his entire life.

"Thank you…" Peter said just above a whisper, leaning back into the bench and feeling the tension he'd accumulated over the past days dissipate. The sound of the waves were as familiar as his own bedroom door, and they seemed to carry away all of his worries. He was no longer concerned with whether or not he was a burden, or if his existence was merely a mistake that would be erased soon. Even his greatest fear, which haunted him at every second regardless of how sincere Britain seemed - that was, the idea that Britain would simply grow sick of him and abandon him once more like an old toy - was drowned within the depths of the sea. They were no longer Peter's problem, but Davy Jones'.

Arthur did not respond, as he did not feel the need to. There had developed an unspoken communication between the two, which allowed them to sit and enjoy a comfortable silence for some time, both savoring the moment of simply sharing a meal by the water.

However, all moments had to end.

The moment the chill pervaded Arthur's jacket, he deemed it the appropriate time to take their leave. He was sure that Peter, being much smaller than him, was likely freezing. Movement would likely allow the two to warm up again, and with that in mind, the man unceremoniously stood. "Well then," he stated, affected by breaking the comfortable silence, "I suppose we should be on our way."

"Aw.. Already..?" Peter responded, reluctance obvious in his tone. He stood as well, looking up to his fatherland in the darkness. Although he was shivering, he did not want the outing to end so soon. He would do almost anything to lengthen the trip, as he didn't want to forfeit the attention he was receiving for anything. At home, Arthur would have the opportunity to think about work, and that would only cause him stress and result in his infamous grouchy behavior. Aside from that, Peter was having a ball.

"Aren't you ready to go in?" Arthur asked, "Surely you must be cold by now."  
"Not at all!" Peter lied, trying his best to convey his excitement. If he seemed hyper, perhaps Arthur would stay out longer in an attempt to tire him out.

Arthur released a long sigh, feeling the effects of his long day come rushing back to him. The piercing night air made him yearn to be indoors, where he could bundle up beneath a blanket and drown his sorrows with tea, but he did not want to disappoint the child whom he was now accountable for. Peter had made it abundantly clear that Arthur had provided quite enough disappointments over the years, and it was high time that he began to make up for it.

"Hm. Well, there is one last place." Arthur stated, a contemplative tone to his voice.

Peter reacted with enthusiasm. "Excellent! Where?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that. You'll just have to wait and see." Arthur said, walking back to the sidewalk, where there was a waste bin. He tossed in his trash, Peter close behind him.

"Then let's hurry up!" The micronation declared, attempting to hasten the process.

" _Patience,_ my boy." Arthur said, an amused smile gracing his lips as he watched the other grow giddy with anticipation, "We'll be there soon enough."

It was clear that Peter thought differently, but he saw no use in argument. He huffed in frustration, then released a sigh of his own with an exaggerated,

Arthur enjoyed seeing that he was getting through to Peter, even if it was only by doing something as simple as forcing him to wait for his desired result. However, he was not entirely heartless, and in a small gesture of sympathy, he set out at a brisk pace that was still well within reason.  
The walk took about fifteen minutes, during which Arthur watched Peter phase through different stages of excitement. The lad was fidgety, and with each passing second Arthur thought him fit to explode. However, he did an excellent job in not running ahead for the majority of the walk, and by the end Arthur felt as if he had made an accomplishment in teaching Peter how to properly exhibit self-restraint.

That pride vanished after Peter caught sight of their final destination, and sprinted onward. Not wanting to be left behind, and concerned that Peter would trip and injure himself, Arthur took off after him. "Wait up!" he called forward, but to no avail. Peter was far too caught up in his own eagerness to heed his brother's command. Within seconds he was standing before the craft, staring up at it in awe. Arthur was only moments behind, and came to a staggering halt beside him with an irritated expression.

"You shouldn't have run off like that!" Arthur scolded, "You could have gotten h-"

"What's her name?" Peter interrupted, not paying his reprimand even the slightest attention.

"Wha.." Arthur paused, following Peter's gaze. He soon realized what he had asked, and responded in a nonchalant manner, "Oh. Cutty Sark."

Peter's eyes were wider than saucers as he looked up at the boat, which was a massive clipper. He had only ever heard of such boats in the history lessons and sea legends given to him by the Captain back during the war, and he could hardly believe that he was currently standing in front of one. He suddenly felt very small, not just in space, but in time. Maritime customs were at the core of his being, and here he was, standing face to face with a representative of one part of the culture that he had been entirely absent for - yet his fatherland shaped it! All Peter could do was stare up in astonishment at the craft as if he were staring into the eyes of god.

Arthur was surprised at how Peter was reacting to the ship. He'd figured that, considering how the boy was on the water constantly, he would only find the vessel mildly interesting. But he had to admit that it made him quite satisfied to see Peter fawning over his work, and he decided that he could be kind and treat the boy further.  
"Would you like to go aboard?" Arthur asked ever so casually.

Peter's eyes gained a thrilled light, his head turning swiftly to look up at him. "May I?"

"Of course," Arthur answered, smiling warmly, "It's after hours, but I'm sure they can make an exception for us." he glanced over the glass pavilion that supported the craft, "...Yes, surely. I can tell them that it's a matter of international diplomacy. It is

ship, after all." he reasoned aloud, speaking to both the boy and himself. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and beginning to look up the phone number of the National Maritime Museum. Just before he was able to place a call, a voice resounded from overhead.  
"Oh, Arthur, she's

When Arthur looked up, he was shocked to find that Peter was standing atop the boat's deck.

"Christ, Peter, how did you get up there?!"

"It was easy!" Peter responded cheerily, "I just jumped off that rubbish bin in the corner and shimmied up the roof off the doorframe-"

"Peter! That was _very_ dangerous!" Arthur exclaimed, staring at the path that the boy took to board the ship. In all honesty, it was impressive, but it was equally horrifying to imagine how hurt Peter would have become in the event that he slipped.

"Not really!" Peter called down, "It was good fun, actually!"

"Well, stay put, would you? I'm coming up as well!" Arthur huffed, highly aggravated that he was having to chase after the child in such a manner. But he didn't want to risk him falling off and breaking his neck, so Arthur decided that he'd have to make haste.

He walked over to the bin in question, which was approximately four feet tall. Luckily, there was a lid atop it that allowed for Arthur to stand on it. He had to rest a hand against the side of the building in order to support himself as he awkwardly lumbered onto it. Once he had properly balanced himself on the bin, Arthur was tasked with getting onto the roof. Taking a deep breath, he managed to lift one leg and place a foot on the top ledge of the slanted door frame, and by gripping the seal of where the roof met the wall, the man was able to push himself up onto the top of the pavilion. Once there he had to be very careful so as to not lose his footing, but with great care he managed to reach the bowsprit, which he used to pull himself aboard the vessel.

Now standing aboard the clipper, he began to walk the deck in search of his youngest brother. "Peter! Where'd you run off to now?!"

"I'm over here!" Peter called, his voice from even further up.

Arthur felt his heart sink as he jogged further along to see that Peter had situated himself up the center mast. He was balanced on the running rigging near the main upper topsail, peering down at Arthur with an elated smile.

"I can see the entire world from up here!"

"I told you to stay still and not go anywhere!"

"I'm sorry, but I _had_ to! This magnificent craft was calling me!"

Peter did not respond, nor did he make any move to climb down. He appeared frozen, staring down at Arthur with an expression now hidden by shadow.

"Do _not_ make me climb this rigging.." Arthur stated.

No response.

Muttering curses beneath his breath, Arthur walked to the cordage and began to climb. He thought nothing of it now, as he had done this too many times to count when he was younger. Within thirty seconds he had reached Peter's perch, and he stood next to him with an expression of disapproval and a fistful of rope to steady himself.

Peter spoke before Arthur had an opportunity to chastise him.

"You gave me a middle name?"

Arthur paused and stared down at him, baffled. "Er, yes.. I suppose I have."

The boy drew out the eye contact, his expression perplexed. "Why?"

"Oh, well, um…" Arthur took in a deep breath, leaning into the mesh. "Everyone needs one, and you seemed like you could use two. You just seem like a Henry and a Maxwell to me, so…" he trailed off, thinking about the names himself. He didn't know where he'd produced them from, and he'd never had a conscious thought about what to dub him. Peter had always been fine, but now that he took the time to consider it, Henry Maxwell sounded like the most natural option. Presumptively, that was why it came from him like a reflex.

"Of course, you don't have to be Henry Maxwell, if you don't want." Arthur continued, not wanting to seem like he was forcing anything upon the boy, "It was just a thought."

"I _love_ it." Peter responded, not pausing to think. He beamed up at Britain, ecstatic with the knowledge that his older brother had given him two excellent middle names. It was a gift of sorts, and Peter felt as if he had been knighted. Aside from that, it simply sounded _right._ Each time Arthur said it, Peter instinctively knew that it was referring to him. It fit him like a tailored suit, and beckoned him like the ocean. If it weren't for the fact that they were suspended fifteen meters off the ground, Peter would have hugged him.

"Oh." Arthur murmured, shocked that he took a liking to it. He'd half expected to be slapped, thinking that Peter would interpret it as Arthur trying to control him, or tell him what he should be. He felt lucky to have not come off as overbearing, and decided to count that as a blessing next time he gave thanks.

"Well, that's splendid." he continued, trying to steer himself back to his main concern. "But that's aside from the point. This was very dangerous, Peter. We really shouldn't be up here."

"Is that so?" Peter challenged with a tad of indignance, "You don't think I can handle this? What, a bit of height places me in some unspeakable peril, but giving me a machine gun a few weeks after being born, and making me give and receive fire from Nazi bombers - that was perfectly safe?"

Arthur took in a deep breath, feeling the boy's words cut into him deeply. It hurt because of how completely justified he was in saying that. Arthur felt heavy with guilt and stupidity; His judgement was truly the worst, and he realized now that he never should have put Fort Roughs into action once learning of the station's sentience. He'd allowed his own desperation to drive him to placing a newborn child on the front lines of the bloodiest war in modern history, and he was still learning of the damage that the experience inflicted upon the boy. To top it off, the child had actually done a decent job in defending him, and what did Arthur do? Why, he'd nearly forgotten about him completely. In the back of his mind, he'd always known how horrible his decision had been, and he'd wanted to bury it in the past. But that was a very difficult thing to do when it came waltzing back to you with a gift in hand.

"Those were different times." Arthur said, struggling to grasp the words of his own invention, "The world, well… We were.. It was tearing itself apart. My reasoning was askew. I still shouldn't have done that to you, and I'm very sorry. But things are better now, and I'm going to be looking after you properly… Part of that is making sure that you're not put in harm's way, regardless of how severe it is."

There was a long silence in which Peter turned his head and stared out at the square, refusing to look at Arthur. Knowing now that he had surely offended the boy, Arthur decided to remain silent, not wanting to stir up any more negative emotions. However, he wondered what he did wrong. Had he angered him by suggesting that Peter _needed_ his help? Well, surely he was capable of looking after himself - his remarkable ability to defend himself from invaders was proof enough of that. But was that enough to warrant the sudden cold shoulder?

The clouds above thinned, allowing for the faintest starlight to shine down upon the square. Arthur could then barely discern water gathering atop Peter's cheeks, glistening for an instant.

"Oh dear. Are you alri-"

"L-Let's just get down from here." Peter said, his voice wavering. Without waiting for a response, he began to descend down the cordage. The pace he set for himself was far too hastened for his small limbs to keep up with, and within three seconds he had lost both his foothold and his grip, eliciting the beginning of a scream as he fell.

Two strong hands took ahold of Peter's arms, suspending him in mid-air far above the deck of the ship. Looking up, his eyes met the evergreen eyes of his older brother, who wore a look of extreme worry.  
"Careful! Going down isn't anything like climbing up." he stated, his arms swaying a bit side to side, "Here, just stay still. I've got you."

In that moment, Peter realized the precarious position the two were in. Arthur had fallen backward in order to catch him, and now hung upside down with his back to the mesh, his ankles' intertwinement with the ropes the only thing keeping the two from plummeting to death or severe injury.

Yet he had faith. The look in Arthur's eyes was endlessly reassuring, as they provided the promise that, even if the earth was at its brink of existence, he would be protecting Peter at all costs. With that silent exchange, he was able to relax.

Arthur bit his lip and took in a deep breath, preparing himself for his next course of action. He did not allow himself any time thereafter for hesitation. He hoisted Peter up with newfound strength, tossing him into the air. He then released his ankles of the rope, and used his upward momentum to right himself before taking ahold of the cordage once more. As he solidified his grip on the rigging he reached out and caught Peter as he fell, using one arm to pluck him out of the air and sling him over his shoulder.

Once he had secured Peter, Arthur wasted no time in descending the lines, climbing down the running rigging with an expertise derived from centuries of roaming the open seas. Once on the deck, Arthur did not stop, and continued to carry the lad off the boat, using his free arm to hold the bowsprit and land gently on the roof. Once there, he set Peter down, then proceeded to slide off the slanted corner of the building. He landed on his feet and bent into a crouch, allowing himself a moment before rising to a standing position once more. Britain looked up to Peter, giving him a warm and encouraging smile.

"Jump, and I'll catch you."

Peter stared down at his brother, overwhelmed with pride and joy. How amazing he must have been in his pirate days! How lucky was he to be related to him? How indestructible he was, now that he had _Great_ Britain to protect him! Without thinking, he stepped off the roof, paying no mind to the gelid wind as it whipped about him in his free fall. Within moments he was in his brother's strong, capable arms, his spirits elevated to cloud nine.

Arthur set him on his feet, and the boy beamed up at him gleefully.

"Thank you! Thank you very much!"

By the time the two arrived home, Peter was exhausted. He ended up collapsing on the couch, curled up with a blanket resembling Union Jack.

That night, he dreampt of sailing the open waters with his pirate brother.


	4. New Year

Peter had always been fond of the prospect of a new year. He enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of it all, with people around the world gathering in their respective time zones to celebrate a moment that would wash over the globe in ecstasy. How exciting it was! How unifying! On the last day of every year, Peter was filled with a palpable exhilaration that pervaded every bit of his being. To him, a new year was comparable to stepping into a new pair of shoes, as he wanted to run into it with the intention to make this year _his_ year. Regardless of whatever setbacks, misfortunes, and upsets he experienced in the previous 365 days, Peter was positive that the upcoming months would be better. There was a certain bubbliness that accompanied the countdown as well. The knowledge that he'd made it through yet another year and had gained more valuable experience made Peter proud, and all the more certain that he was well-equipped to handle the challenges of the future, whatever they may be.

Unfortunately, Arthur did not share such optimism. The man was drenched in his own cynicism, and it appeared that nothing would divorce him of his accompanying pessimism. To him, there was little to nothing to look forward to in the new year. Things would be fine for a little while, but after the first month, it all returned to normal. People dropped their resolutions, old arguments were reignited, and the same nations fought over the same petty issues, looking for ways to trip each other and benefit from the shortcomings of others. Why get his hopes up when he knew what would happen in advance? He had to admit that it was amusing to watch Peter get worked up all day, drinking soda pop and enthusiastically watching football matches, but his youthful antics would not persuade Arthur from his opinion that December the 31st was just another day. And, just like every other day, Arthur went to bed at 10 o'clock.

Peter had watched his brother disappear down the hallway, wearing his button-up collared shirt and large, baggy pajama pants, both of which were striped in pale mint green. With a hopeful voice, Peter had called out to him, asking the nation if he was absolutely sure that he didn't want to stay up to welcome the new year with him. With a faint smile, Arthur looked back to the lad and shook his head, reaffirming that he was indeed absolutely sure, and instructing him not to stay up too late.

The two hours following the exchange were both lonely and thrilling. Although Peter would have enjoyed having his older sibling by his side, he was much too invigorated by the festivities playing out on the television mind the absence. Because he was considered too young to attend a New Years party unsupervised, he could only watch a gathering of people on the screen, perched on the edge of the antique sofa as he became engrossed in the live performances. When the countdown did arrive, he couldn't help but count with it, a grin across his face as the next year approached at a breakneck pace.

Then it was there, and Peter leapt up from the couch, hands outstretched toward the ceiling in excitement. It was as if a new world had been opened up to him, promising endless opportunities and chances for glory. What if this was the year he'd be recognized as a nation? What fantastic memes would be thought up? The possibilities were simply endless, and Peter was ecstatic to step toward them.

It was fitting for him to celebrate the event in his brother's house. A year ago, the idea would be inconceivable to him. It was only recently that he had come to be on good terms with Arthur once more, which in itself was a treasure chest of wonderful opportunities. So much had changed in the last year, so where would he end up at the end of this next one? Peter had no idea, but it was an uncertainty that he embraced wholeheartedly as he rejoiced in his first New Year's Day on the mainland.

Then a resounding boom came from somewhere nearby, eliciting a cry from Peter. He instinctively ducked, shoving his hands over his mouth to choke down a scream as more explosions rang out across the city. His heart began to race, and with another deafening round of reports he was sent to his feet, his body working on auto-pilot as he sprinted down the hall and threw open the door to Arthur's bedroom.

Scarcely had the British man ever awoken with such a fright. His eyes flew open once he felt a pair of arms wrap around his chest, and with a gasp he shot upright, gripping his new adversary's shoulders and preparing to knee him in the face. However, he forced himself to freeze after realizing how small and weak the intruder was, and after a few moments, he came to recognize him as his younger brother. He was disturbed to find that the boy was shivering uncontrollably.

"Peter?! What's the matter?"

"Get down!" Peter cried, gripping Arthur's wrist with both hands and attempting to pull him out of bed. Another explosion resonated through the air, and light entered the room through the window, dimmed considerably by the drawn curtains. The soft glow illuminated Peter's face, which was wearing an expression of panic. Tears glistened as they flowed down his cheeks, his cyan eyes as large as the ocean itself.

The child's attempt to physically force Arthur onto the floor would have been laughable under any other circumstances. If he weren't worried sick, Arthur very well would have chuckled at his efforts. Unfortunately, the lad was completely hysterical, and it didn't take a genius to see why.

"Peter, calm down!" Arthur implored, reaching around the micronation and trapping him in a restrictive hug. He shifted, easily pulling him further onto the bed to keep him from running off anywhere. "Everything is alright, we're perfectly fi-"

He was cut off by a sudden, unprecedented surge of power from Peter, who somehow managed to break Arthur's hold and shove him down, pinning him to the mattress. It was a complete shock, and the larger nation was left stunned as his sibling stared down at him in unparalleled determination.

 _"Why won't you just take cover and let me protect you?!"_ Peter exclaimed, his tears falling onto Arthur's shirt. He was still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, but his grip was strong and unwavering. Arthur had heard of people acquiring phenomenal strength when in a state of sheer terror, but he had never entertained the idea for very long, as it was never relevant until this point.

"Peter…" Arthur murmured, staring up at him with a look of extreme concern, "They're just fireworks."

The statement did some good. Peter's grip loosened, and he looked down at him as if he were a blind man granted sight. "They're… oh.." With another great shudder Peter's arms gave way, and he collapsed on top of Arthur. He clutched onto the man, burying his head into his chest and crying.

Arthur slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, Peter throwing his arms around him and trapping him in a tight embrace as he did so. Arthur could feel his tears seeping through his cotton shirt, making his heart wrench. He gently returned the hug, holding Peter close and stroking his hair to calm him down.

Never had Arthur felt quite so guilty. The only rivals for his current soul-crushing remorse both occurred in recent days, and were likewise stirred up by Peter. The fact that he'd sent the child into battle cut into him like a dagger, but he'd thought that he'd managed to consistently avoid thinking about it. At least he could console himself a bit with the knowledge that Peter was a resilient kid with a lively, optimistic attitude, who seemed to handle the unsavory parts of life with incredible buoyancy. However, that comfort was disappearing as he realized just how much the war had affected the child. He was so young for a nation, yet he already had been scarred to the point that he was thrown into flashbacks. Arthur had no clue of the extent of the issue, (Did he have nightmares? Did he ever feel guilty about the men he'd lost? Was the close proximity to England making it worse?) but what he did see was disturbing enough. Arthur wanted nothing more than to take away all of his pain, but that was impossible. All he could do was hold Peter close to him, muttering reassurances and trying to make him feel as safe as possible.

After a few minutes, Peter began to come down off his frantic high. He continued to lean into Arthur, taking in deep, shaky breaths as he actively tried to calm down. When he finally spoke again, it was with a quavering voice.

"I-I am so sorry, I just-"

"It's quite alright."

"I j-just wanted to _protect_ you-"

"Really, it's no bother at all-"

"A-And I'm s-so sorry for interrupting your sleep-"

 _"Peter."_

The child ceased his babbling, hesitantly looking up to Arthur. The fireworks were quieter and less frequent now, fading into the background and failing to threaten Peter. He was in his brother's arms, so he was impervious to any harm. Tsar Bomba could hit him and he'd still be safe and sound.

Arthur gave him a bittersweet smile, green light briefly highlighting one side of his face. "This isn't something that you need to feel ashamed of or apologize for. This sort of thing happens to every nation that's ever been involved in a war. In fact, the older a country is and the larger his military influence, the more he has moments like this. It's something we all have to deal with. It'll get easier to bear as you get older."

Peter's breathing evened out, and he appeared less embarrassed about the situation. He wiped his eyes, sniffing as he did so. "R-Really? Even… Even you?"

"Of course." Arthur responded. He hadn't had a huge breakdown like this since his younger years - reaching back to before he was a pirate - but occasionally it did get to him. Some days, after a particularly rough ordeal, he'd have a copious amount of liquor and end up sobbing for fifteen minutes before passing out, and there were a few odd nights in which he'd wake up in a cold sweat. There were smaller things as well, mainly old reflexes and habits that persisted from conflicts long forgotten. But the only difference between his younger self and Peter was that back then, Arthur hadn't had anyone to comfort him.

If there was one thing that Arthur would get correct from the start, it was helping his younger brother through the horrendous state of mind that was every nation's rite of passage.

"Now, I know that you're probably perfectly capable of handling this on your own," Arthur stated, careful to not offend the micronation, "But if you'd like, you could sleep in here with me tonight."

It was clear that Peter was very fond of that idea. "Ah… Alright." he answered, looking up to his brother with a grateful expression. It appeared that Britain understood precisely what he needed, at least in that moment. He'd scarcely felt so appreciative.

Slowly, Peter worked his way out of Arthur's arms, settling on the bed beside him. He slipped beneath the blankets and rested his head on a pillow, looking over to Arthur, who was watching him with a fondness that would have been unattainable a year ago. As his brother likewise settled down, Peter felt tremendously thankful for how much progress he'd made with him recently, and hoped to grow even closer in the near future.

Arthur lay down with his back to Peter, releasing a sigh as he relaxed once more.

"Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight, Peter."

Peter shifted, becoming more comfortable as his tension faded into the mattress. He took in a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut.

"...Arthur?"

"Yes?"

There was a long pause before Peter finally said it.

"I love you."

"I… I love you, too."

In the silence, a few more tears were added to Arthur's shirt.


End file.
